


Music To My Ears

by Mortefere (aldamita)



Series: Mor Oneshots [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Tags Will Update With Additional Chapters, Violence, mormor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 11:42:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1939725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aldamita/pseuds/Mortefere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of shorts based off songs. Initially started off as a prompt request on tumblr, but I may continue to add new stories from time to time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Do I Wanna Know? - Arctic Monkeys

The liquor coats his tongue, burns in his throat and reminds him of the taste of gunpowder in the dessert. He lays his cards down and, what do you know, he wins. Aces all around. It must be funny to the guy sitting next to him because he laughs, laughs and laughs and Sebastian knows he's caught. No matter. He didn't only have an ace up his sleeve.

With a flick of his wrist the man's dead, then, in a quick succession of pops, so are the others. He looks over the carnage and finishes his drink. It doesn't taste half as good as it did a moment ago. But that's okay; he was done here anyway. His blood is singing for something more than dead men who never took kindly to losing.  
  
The night whips past him, wraps over him and whispers in his ear its a rasping purr. It's familiar, in his head, and his mind supplies words that aren't being, never have been, and probably never will be said. Sebastian lets it beckon him, his bike speeding up into a flash in the dark. He needs to see everything he's seen before and hopes, fervently, for more.  
  
The night is his shade, his cover as he goes unnoticed to everyone in the world. Everyone that does and absolutely does not matter. It's exactly how he wants it. The sky draws out; above him in endless black and it reminds him of eyes that burn so bright in their emptiness. Eyes that captivate him without even trying, knowing. He sees them, now, through the dots, and Sebastian's breath stales in his lungs.  
  
A dark-haired devil is dancing like he knows he's being watched. He twists and rotates in a slow rhythm, neck arching invitingly for no one to music Sebastian swears he can hear. There's a drink in his hand that raises to plush lips and his tie hangs loose against a throat that begs for strangulation. He runs a hand through slick, black hair and arches his back and Sebastian can see the outline of sharp ribs beneath the thin fabric of a dress shirt and he's hard within seconds, rutting in an aching rhythm against unforgiving denim and concrete.  
  
He's been here so many times before. He'll always be here until he's there, pressing back against that sharp and sweet frame for good, hoping that he's been turned away for the last time. It's a fever dream that's chased him so long he wonders when he started chasing it in return. Not that it matters. He wonders idly if he's always been here. Waiting. Shameful and hiding. Yearning for more than he'll ever be freely given.  
  
The devil's hand dances down his own chest and, in Sebastian's mind, it's his chest. It feels like blades chasing the tremors in his skin and he exhales, heavy and with the aftertaste of napalm lingering on his lips. Its perfect and he can't blink. His eyes collect dust as he watches. A dip, a roll of hips, and eyes meet his, stare into the filth of his soul. An impossible thought, but it's enough to give Sebastian what he needs and his hips stutter against the rooftop.  
  
There's an obvious ache visible in his stride as he disappears back from the edge of the roof with his rifle packed and inconspicuous over his shoulder. He'll be back again tomorrow, and it'll feel like he'd never left. He's always here, even when he's not; his mind makes sure of that. But he never knows to imagine the feral smirk that always haunts after his fleeing back.  
  
It's honestly probably better that he never knows.


	2. We Didn't Start The Fire - Billy Joel

The radio was a miracle. The fact that a station was even still broadcasting, even more so. The music? Not so much. It was old, though iconic, and, mostly, things Sebastian last remembered being on the radio when he was a kid. Actually, that last one probably made it a little better, nostalgia and all that, but Sebastian kept that point to himself- even if Jim might agree. Hell, Jim looked like he'd agree to anything, right now. If that point gave Sebastian any; ideas, well, he kept that to himself, too.

Jim is dancing. He calls it dancing, but it just looks like he's spinning in circles to Sebastian, spinning and spinning with no end in sight on top of the tallest pile of rubble they'd found yet. Dust kicks up around his feet and Sebastian coughs, waves the cloud away as it infiltrates his nose and lights the last cigarette it looks like he'll be having for a while. Maybe they'd luck out like they did with the radio and find a shop that isn't halfway blown to Hell. Cigarettes had to be more common than radios, right?  
  
He takes a drag and watches as his boss- was he still his boss? Probably not considering their situation, but Jim would gut him if he didn't at least hold on to that- stretches his arms out to the sky and it looks as if he's trying to take flight. It tickles something in Sebastian and he laughs, a loud bark. Jim scowls at him, but he's laughing too, and the mix just makes Sebastian laugh harder.  
  
"Now, now, Sebastian. This is serious," Jim chides, voice fluctuating as he spins and giggles. It's almost cute; his boss looks like a kid, dancing in celebration all over the sand castle they'd built up just for this one moment of glorious destruction. Actually, that was a bloody fitting description, except the castle he was dancing on wasn't torn down by his overexcited feet. Someone else had that pleasure. Funny; Sebastian always imagined Jim would be the one to tear his world down. Looks like there's still time for that, though.   
  
"It won't last forever, you know." Sebastian's laughter cuts short and he isn't sure what Jim's talking about at first, but that's nothing new. Probably one of the only familiar things about this whole situation. Jim stops turning and gestures with a flourish to the radio. "Either the queue will run out or the power, then... silence. Forever." A shudder runs through Jim's entire frame at that last word and Sebastian's body echoes it without his consent.   
  
"Guess that means we gotta make the most of it while it's still around, yeah?" Sebastian pushes himself up from where he was lounging on a pile of what remained of London's White Tower and brushes his hands carelessly on his jeans while Jim looked on expectantly. He just grins as he saunters over, climbing haphazardly up the taller pile where Jim stands, and circles an arm around the man's too thin waist. Sebastian spins and dips him effortlessly and Jim laughs his delight, high and manic.  
  
"That's the spirit!" Jim cries out in response, and throws his arms around Sebastian's neck, humming along to the tune of the radio that crackles beside them, music and static mixing with chaos and destruction.  
  
"We didn't start the fire..." Jim hums, and Sebastian laughs.


	3. Bruises & Bitemarks - Good With Grenades

Sebastian comes back late from his poker game smelling of liquor and cheap perfume and Jim hides his grin before it’s seen. He doesn’t want to Sebastian to know he’s been waiting for this, for an excuse, and he blindsides the man with a piercing glare. Sebastian stumbles under the weight of it for a moment before he recognizes the light shining in those endless eyes. It looks like an eternity of flames waiting to swallow him whole and drag him into the depths and every cell in his body is burning for it. It’s beautiful and painful and he _wants_ it.

They step towards each other like they were taking part in a choreographed dance but it’s really nothing more than years of practice forced into the span of a few months. In the beginning it was all pain and force and violence, and though there is still plenty of that to come, it’s the kind they can both enjoy. They can see how each other wants this, needs this, and they’re both so willing to give. It’s a promise of overloaded senses and minds wiped clean and it’s just so, so _perfect_.

Sebastian tilts his head obstinately and Jim punches the cocky smirk right off his face. Drops of blood spatter across the white of the living room wall in slow motion and a growl is the only warning before Jim feels a shoulder ram into his soft middle. His back bounces off the door frame of his office, the air fills with the sound of an audible crack as a result, and Jim lets out a pleased sigh. Then he drops his elbow into the point between Sebastian’s shoulder blades and then the air reverberates with a curse.

The whole flat will look like a war zone by the morning, but neither of them seem to care. They grunt and curse and sigh and moan and turn every corner and flat surface into an excuse to inflict pain, pleasure. It’s how they work together. Pain and pleasure intertwined so tightly there ceases to be a difference between the two. Jim wishes he could frame this moment and hang it above his desk. Sebastian wishes he could record it and leave it on an unending loop in his bedroom. They each wish to savor it in their own way, but it ends before they know it does, and always in the same way.

Stretched out in the living room where it began, surrounded by the tatters of the domestic life they’d built together since the last time, they lie side by side in silence on the floor. They taste blood and sweat and sex on their respective tongues and it sates the hunger that drove them to this in the first place. It’s beauty and destruction and every breath is a painful exaltation of ragged life and neither of them would have it any other way.


	4. Hurricane - 30 Seconds to Mars

He’s staring down the sights of his rifle. Dark curls silhouetted against the back-light of a single lamp in the flat beckon him toward his target. He can feel the vibration start through in his spine, snake outward and curl around his trigger finger. It itches and everything in him tells him to pull on it. He forces himself to steady, to take a moment. It takes everything in him to do so.

_One deep breath._

-

That look haunted Sebastian. Jim always looked empty, but until then it had only been a trick of light in naturally dark eyes. That night it hadn’t been a trick. The moon was bright and filtered in through the tall windows of their home and illuminated everything it touched. It fell in rays around Jim in the darkness of their living room, circled him in an a cold embrace, but it never reached his eyes. Even as he turned to Sebastian, all he saw was nothing, emptiness, and even his voice sounded hollow when he spoke.

Even now those words echo in Sebastian’s memory, haunting.

-

He’s staring down the sights of his rifle. He almost hadn’t made it in time, but he quickly locates Watson on the street. There aren’t a lot of people around, so that will make his getaway both that much easier and harder, but he doesn’t think about that yet. He has a job to do, and he’ll bloody well focus on that till it’s done. He steadies in practiced fashion and takes aim, waiting.

_One deep breath._

-

The last string of Jim’s web fell and Sebastian didn’t even get a text. Which had made sense to him, really. There wasn’t a member of Jim’s empire left to send one. He had known this was going to happen, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. Everything Jim had built, had raised from nothing, was all but ashes now. Crashed and burned in the wake of the brilliant man’s public demise. Everything they had done, made together, crumbled right before Sebastian’s eyes and he couldn’t do a thing about it.

It haunts him to know that there had been a time when he could have.

-

He’s staring down the sights of his rifle and all he sees is red. Holmes is shocked, he can see that, but it means nothing to Sebastian. All he can focus on is the rapidly growing pool of blood and brain matter that was meant to stay right where it had been in his ~~lover’s~~ boss’s skull. It makes him feel sick to his stomach, and his vision blurs because his rifle is shaking. He is shaking. But it doesn’t matter. He has a job to do and he forces his hands to still, to aim, finger twitching on the trigger.

_One deep breath._

-

The police had barely given him a chance to get a shot off before they were swarming the rooftop in line of sight to 221B Baker Street. It had all been a trap laid in wait for him. Holmes was no more dead than the dummy that had taken his place was alive, and now Sebastian was left to spend the rest of his days rotting in a cage. It had been a big win for Holmes, catching the last thread of Moriarty’s web, but the gaunt man didn’t seem to appreciate it as much as he should have. He remembered how grim Holmes had looked as he was thrown into the back of a car, how he looked as if he were attending a funeral, and Sebastian felt a little comforted by the fact that he obviously wasn’t the only one to still be mourning Jim’s death after all these years. Comforted, at least, for a time. Then he remembered how he could have stopped this all from happening in the first place.

That’s the thing about being haunted, it never gives you much peace.

-

_'Would you ever kill someone to save me, Sebastian?'_

_'Pretty sure I already have.'_

_'No. Someone I instructed you specifically not to kill.'_

_'If they were a threat to you? Without hesitation.'_

_'I hope for your sake that's true.'_

-

He’s staring down from the edge of the cot in his cell and Sebastian swallows heavily. The last intimate conversation he had with Jim plays in his head on a constant loop and all he wants is to make it end. He had tried to let it go, to move on from the pain, but what was there to move onto in this tiny cell? Nothing. There was never going to be anything for him that could ever match what he had with Jim, so he stopped trying. He swallows again and the rope scratches roughly at his throat. There won’t be enough of a drop to break his neck like this, but he doesn’t care. He deserves the suffering of slow strangulation for the inadvertent lie he’d told his boss-slash-lover that night, and he’s ready for it. He steadies his nerves and inches to edge, noose already feeling too tight around his throat. His fingers twitch unconsciously at his sides and he curls them into fists.

_One deep breath._


End file.
